Today, I had to remind myself… again

Today, I had to remind myself… again

That every person is as different as an individual flake of snow.

That no two social situations or family dynamics are the same.

That mankind is as unique as the tiny seeds spilled from a glossy envelope in spring. We all sprout in our own time – some of us thriving with little or no effort, while others hold on merely by a thread – under the most carefully controlled settings of an incubator.

That everyone’s brain chemistry and neurological wiring are as divergent as the blades of grass sweeping across the rolling plains.

That there’s no pass or fail in parenting and we’re all dealt a distinctly unique hand.

That an intelligent successful or talented child is not necessarily the reflection of a super parent.

That ALL accomplishments are relative to the individual.

That doing your best and giving your ALL can yield significantly different results in different people.

That doing your best is always good enough.

That the world is a ginormous fruit basket, and you can’t compare apples and oranges

That the outcome of any given situation is not always the most accurate reflection of dedication, diligence, effort and perseverance.

That shit happens.

That sometimes you win and sometimes you lose.

That people will always make blanket assumptions and judgements about situations they know nothing about.

That some days this will sneak up on you and leave you feeling defeated.

That whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, validation and positive reinforcement from others are as crucial as the air we breathe.

That the world is a giant kaleidoscope composed of distinctly unique fragments all complimenting one another as a beautiful abstract whole.

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How Can He be Graduating…. He was Born Yesterday??

Stop the clock… I’m not ready!

Make no mistake, I’ve been there and done that twice, but I’m still not remotely prepared for my youngest son to graduate high school in a few weeks. In fact, I’ve been in emotional denial his entire senior year.

Letting go is something I apparently suck at.

Rewind to yesterday.

This newborn baby boy was nuzzled into moms bosom for the better part of his first month, simply because he would not be put down. Seriously, he was like a new adorable appendage. The only sleep Mama Bear got was in the recliner holding him.

He stuck like velcro the entire first year and was affectionately nicknamed velcro baby.

Then I awakened one morning and POOF… my clingy baby had morphed into a toddler on a full-blown quest for autonomy – walking, talking and getting into mischief.

Shortly thereafter, at the tender age of four, my adventure seeking tike began nursery school, and never looked back. He was so proud to be in school. The cherry of this sweet milestone was the procession of miniature graduates parading across stage wearing white cardboard hats adorned with floppy powder blue yarn tassels. Mommy bliss.

Then I woke the following morning, and POOF… my preschooler was now in elementary school and had learned to ride a two-wheeler, bat a ball, tie his shoes and open his own milk carton. There was great anticipation for special school events like picture day, the spring concert, Cub Scouts and field trips.

These were happy and exciting times.

When the sun rose on what seemed like the very next day, POOF… This now pubescent boy was spreading his wings. He went to junior high dances, parties and hung out at the skating rink. He began ditching his bike helmet in the shrubs, because being cool trumped being safe. My man apprentice also started wearing name brand clothing and smelling of Axe body spray.

Good bye to hugs, kisses and holding hands in public.

Time passed and what seemed something like a week later, POOF… somehow this rapidly growing boy was now in high school – earning his varsity letter in sports, getting a drivers license, taking the SAT’s, applying to college, going to the prom and landing his first part-time job.

The little boy now towered over me and I could fit my shoes inside his. I was constantly mistaking his voice for my husbands.

He became a bottomless pit who could consume an entire box of cereal or pizza in a single sitting.

Then one morning before he drove himself to school he said,

“Mom, my senior picture is due for the yearbook on Monday.”

Me – nooooooooo!!!! You were just in kindergarten LAST Monday – how can this be happening?

When I awakened a few months later, he was officially a senior. The final hurrah. Senior recognition night, the final homecoming, class trip and the last dance… the senior ball. Graduation announcements and party invitations started rolling in.

“Mom, tomorrow is the last day to get measured for cap and gown. I need to pay my deposit.”

Me – noooooooo!!! You were just in first grade last Tuesday – how can this be happening?

A couple weeks later the senior yearbook materialized on the kitchen table… The Class of 2015.

It’s time.

When his name is called, he will stroll across the stage – hand extended to proudly accept his diploma, and a sweet era will drift into a cloud of the coveted past tense.

Childhood will be no more.

I know my son is ready to embark on this exciting new journey. He is ambitious, bright and virtuous.

He will do great and I am proud.

I bubble with happiness and sadness simultaneously.

It’s time.

Time to let go.

He was just born last Thursday – a healthy 7 pounds 9 ounces, which feels nothing like 18 years gone by – how can this be happening?

Time really does fly.

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Gina Fenton is an obstetrical RN, blogger, wife, mom of four and self-appointed advocate for special needs and mental health. She writes the over-the-top humor blog Extreme Mom for sanity preservation and her own entertainment. Gina lives in Upstate N.Y. with her family, two dogs and ThatGoddamnedCat. Her adventurous everyday tales can be found on Extrememom.net. Her writing has been featured on popular sites like Mamapedia, Bonbon Break, BlogHer, Project Underblog and Mamalode.

50 Shades of Too Much Information?

Propaganda for 50 Shades of Grey is everywhere. Not only are snippets flashing across the flat screens in our private living rooms, they’re popping up on covers of magazines at the doctors office, and on the radio as we drive our kids to school. The hype is practically inescapable.

The underlying message is sex and like it or not, this message has been let loose in society, where it’s being absorbed by incidental osmosis… most notably by the next generation.

I’m certainly not insinuating that sex is taboo and that we should not talk about it. Nor am I implying that the majority of young people understand or are even privy to the explicit details and inner workings of 50 Shades or the S & M culture, but I am, however, confident that the related hype supports the general message that – sex is all the rage… and kinky sex is even better.

It bothers me that it’s gone mainstream and its presence is inescapable.

Ready or not…

The $64,000 question is – will the naughty hype created by 50 Shades of Grey tempt young people to enter the sexual arena before they’re ready?

I respect the fact that S & M is a perfectly acceptable form of entertainment for adults. I get it – masses of hormonally overloaded mommies are embracing it as a new refreshing means of sexual escape.

This is absolutely not about anyones personal lifestyle. Quite frankly, I could care less if people choose to light themselves on fire and fornicate on a bed of rusty corkscrews.

The simple fact is – Children do not live in protective G rated bubbles.

The problem begins when adults have CONVERSATIONS in public places, and they do. Even if we’re careful with our spoken words, our tone of voice and body language emit strong messages. Children only need be present to absorb the message expressed by their friends moms and other grown-ups.

50 shades of sexual hype is spreading faster than a drop of food coloring in a glass of water.

Chill out Mama Bear, this is not about your parenting skills.

God only knows what Carol Brady did behind closed doors. For all we know she hung by her pasties from a trapeze when Mike shut the light out. Ones sexual escapades has nil to do with their parenting skills.

Nobody is insinuating that you are promoting 50 Shades openly or that you’d allow your child to read the book or watch the movie.

And lastly, nobody is condemning or judging the S & M lifestyle as a whole.

It seems to be the general consensus of most parents, that since they’ve had conversations with their children about sex, they’re reasonably confident that they’ll make the right decisions when the time comes.

This may be true.

Let’s at least admit that it can get pretty confusing when it’s obvious that mommy is head over heels over Mr. Grey.

Actions speak louder than words.

Parental guidance is without a doubt the best protection. However, just like discussions on underage drinking, smoking and drugs, the outcome can more-often-than-not be a crap shoot.

No technique is flawless, so I wouldn’t be so fast to boast that your stellar parenting skills are armour enough to protect your children from making bad choices. Keep an open mind.

Dangle a sweet sexual Snicker bar in front of a child, reiterate that it’s not appropriate for them and what’s likely to happen?

They may or may not.

Jury’s out.

I’m not assigning blame to 50 Shades enthusiasts.

I’m merely speculating that when a society chooses to loosely toss around a concept like 50 Sexual Shades of Naughtiness, we’re destined to be faced with a generation that’s somewhat desensitized to sex. Not to mention, the fact that we’re inadvertently giving the thumbs up to engage in a new level of sexual exploration.

Some children are getting an earful before they’re ready, simply because 50 Shades is a thing. It’s out there.

Will this newest bundle of readily-available sexual information cause us as a whole to carelessly put the cart (50 Shades of fun) before the horse (fundamental sex education)?

This may certainly not be true for all children, but the possibility is real, and these poorly guided youth share space in the same society.

It’s not so much the effect this will have on my own children that concerns me, as it is the breakdown of yet another societal value.

How can we as parents begin to encourage abstinence, safe sex, and the fundamentals of a healthy relationships when our kids heads are being filled with propaganda that kinky sex games are all the rage?

It’s tough to compete with societal pressure.

To add assault to injury, young girls tend to be highly volatile emotional beings: heartbroken train wrecks in waiting.

Do we really want to go there?

Take a moment to ponder the potential emotional wrath associated with this new level of submissiveness and vulnerability.

Do I fault the author or film producers for creating 50 Shades? No.

I absolutely respect the fact that some people are awesome parents and it’s possible that 50 Shades of Hoopla will not effect their children.

It cannot be dismissed, however, that the seed of submissiveness and codependency, not to mention a new realm of intermediate sexual exploration has been planted in mainstream society.

Attitudes are infectious.

Peer pressure is powerful.

Are we encouraging a new progressive atmosphere in society where sex is no big deal?

When women raise eyebrows and chat nonchalantly about this latest fad on the sidelines of their kids soccer games, they are absolutely fueling the embers for the next sexual revolution.

It’s an attitude and it’s conspicuous.

It definitely leaves this mom unsettled.

On the flip side, it also paves way for necessary conversation.

I don’t pretend to have the answers to this particular dilemma. What I do know is that our society is becoming more and more complacent about sex in general and that’s something to think about.

The question is – what role do you play in all this?

Food for thought.

A Mommy Bloggers Letter to her Children regarding 50 Shades
http://www.bonbonbreak.com/letter-children-fifty-shades-grey/?fb_comment_id=fbc_785013424910328_785164861561851_785164861561851

A message to parents from a child psychologist
http://www.miriamgrossmanmd.com/parent-survival-guide-to-fifty-shades-of-grey-how-to-talk-to-your-child-about-sadomasochism/

A message to young people from a child psychologist
http://www.miriamgrossmanmd.com/an-open-letter-to-young-people-about-fifty-shades-of-grey/

50 Quotes from 50 Shades… YOU decide
http://www.upworthy.com/6-real-quotes-from-fifty-shades-that-could-make-you-rethink-how-you-feel-about-it

 

Alternate kick-ass uses for the creeper Elf on a Shelf

 

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*Replace his limbs with juicy hotdogs and gift him to your hungry dog or pet cheetah

 

*Wind him around a cardboard roll to use as emergency toilet paper

 

*Roll him in Cheese Whiz and strategically place in rat trap to guarantee… “not a creature is stirring.”

 

*Install creepy light-up eyeballs that activate when your naughty kid gets out of bed at night – *submit this to America’s Funniest Videos for a chance to win $10,000 to cover your childs future therapy bill

 

*Wrap him around a plunger and unclog the toilet of festive holiday leavings

 

*Fill with sand and carefully position at the end of your driveway as a speed bump for cocky teenagers and unwelcome solicitors. *spikes optional*

 

*Fill his head with bacon grease and explode it in the microwave for a science fair project, totally winning the science fair

 

*Replace his hands with tongs to help remove the extra-partsthat-don’t-belong-there-in-the-first-place out of the holiday turkeys caboose

 

*Fill his legs with catnip and film the best YouTube video EVER- starring your cat

 

*Lube him up and use as a holiday-themed tampon for heavy flow days

 

*Fill him with fire ants and gift to your favorite coworker, relative, ex-boyfriend or boss

 

*Use as canine pleasure companion for when your dog gets humpy

 

*Give him a stylish steel wool afro and use his sorry noggin to scrub the green stuff out of the fridge

 

*Put your hand up his butt like a puppet – to keep it from freezing when brushing the snow off your car

 

*Soak him in lighter fluid to use as festive fireplace kindling and/or roast his vodka-soaked nuts on an open fire

 

*Make him into an ugly sweater for your litter box scooper

 

*Replace his insides with elastic and use to sling-shot frozen monkey poop at people who hold up the line at the DMV

 

*Use him to put out small fires, like the next time your kids blow up the toaster oven

 

*Use his extra long legs as ties to hold your kids barf bag around his neck during flu season

 

*Replace his stuffing with pennies and use them to pay for your next Taco Bell order

 

*Use as an absorbent mop head to soak up toxic spills… like the explosive aftermath almost always created when well-meaning relatives sneak your dog table scraps

 

*Replace his head with a clove of garlic and fasten him to the front of your straight jacket to keep vampires and crazy relatives away. Eat his head in an emergency

 

*Use to clean up the bloody mess when your 15 year old with ADD gets her period

 

*Place a bulb syringe in his hat and use him to suck the sticky boogers out of your uncooperative toddlers nose

 

*Fasten to your car bumper to cushion the blow for poorly located deer and pedestrians, thereby sparring Rudolph’s life and potentially saving Christmas

 

*Use as an incontinence liner for grandma, so when she gets run over in the annual reindeer stampede… she won’t lose her sh*t

 

Read more Extreme Mom holiday stories here.

 

While I was asleep…

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From the moment I brought my first two children home from the hospital, barely 12 months shy of one another… nobody slept. My Irish twins were jacked-up baby Energizer Bunnies in stereo.

*Irish twins- when the same woman produces multiple offspring in a 12 month period through separate pregnancies. This probably causes many women to take up recreational drinking later in life, so I’m pretty sure that’s where the Irish part comes from.

I gave birth to up-all-night babies who quickly grew into up-all-night toddlers who were about as difficult to settle in bed as a pair of adolescent spider monkey’s on crack. I kid you not, my bald tail-less monkey’s would not. stay. in. bed. And yes, I tried everything from warm soothing baths, calming music, and dreadfully mundane bedtime stories to… Benadryl.

Yes, I did.

Don’t go all judgy June Cleaver on me. I was exhaustipated with a capital E. Also, in my defense, as an RN I’d been advised by physicians on numerous occasions to administer this same medication to adult patients FOR SLEEP. I was working in pediatrics at the time, so it was easy to figure out the safe dosage. Unfortunately, medications can have the opposite effect on some people. Particularly, small noisy restless humans between 2 – 3 foot tall whose sole mission is to siphon adult energy. As Murphy’s Law would predict, Benadryl effected my toddler like a double shot of expresso laced with pixie stick powder.

As a result, I quickly came to terms with the reality that there was no magic bullet – NOTHING could guarantee to convert my hyperactive children into sleepy mode at sundown. Colassal bummer. In addition to holding the ever-taxing mom title, I had a full time job. I was so tired it hurt. More often than not, I’d simply give in to exhaustion and assume the vertical-cozy-position next to my bouncing balls of energy, which meant I was out for the entire night… in a bed intended for baby bear.

This moms episode of Sleepless in New York actually took place 18 years ago, before the explosion of social networking and subsequent 24/7 online moral support for Mommy’s-at-the-end-of-their-ropes. Quite frankly, I don’t know how I survived without the almighty Internet life line.

I  just do not know.

I recently finished reading the new mom anthology, Motherhood May Cause Drowsiness, which is a funny and heartwarming collection of tales written by kindred sleep deprived mom goddesses. Rest assured, fellow mombies, the sleep-deprived state you’re experiencing is indeed a widespread and universal phenomenon that’s also temporary.

You’ve just got to love nocturnal children.

For me, it quickly became a nightly contest to see who would fall asleep first. Predictably, I was hardly ever victorious. To this day, the same image pops into my consciousness whenever bedtime shenanigans are mentioned. The infamous night I frantically woke to discover my two year old son was MIA, which meant he had escaped from his room and was most likely on a mischievous adventure. At the sight of his empty bed, I instinctually rushed into my daughters room, where thankfully, I discovered them both. She was nuzzled under the bed covers fast asleep and my Energizer Bunny Boy was perched on top of her sleeping figure with the entire contents of the toy box spilled onto her bed. Bizarre, but funny as Hell. He had the Fisher Price farm set up next to her head and was gleefully manipulating the animal figures up and down her arms, making barnyard noises. Moooooooo!!! Cock-a-doodle-doo!!! Apparently, he needed someone to play with and it didn’t matter to him if his playmate was interactive

For the official record, it’s not easy to portray a convincing bad-ass disciplinarian when you’re gasping and turning colors trying to stifle an impending laugh-out-loud-and-slap-your-thigh. Some things are just plain entertaining, especially when you’re exhausted.

The strategy I most often resorted to when attempting to wind down my hyperactive monkey-boy was to force him to lay on the couch and watch National Geographic, while I took care of whatever needed to be urgently attended to – like washing the families underwear, tossing the after-dinner wreckage into the dumpster or mopping up the lake left on the bathroom floor after evening baths. The drone hum of the NG narrators voice was enough to put a herd of elephants to sleep, although predictably, it hardly had any effect on my high strung monkey child who, incidentally, had been diagnosed with off-the-charts ADHD by the tender age of five. I can’t confirm that off-the-charts ADHD is an official diagnosis in the DSM, but I do hereby swear it came out of the psychiatrists mouth.

This particular memory came bouncing back into my consciousness like a baby grenade the moment I sunk my teeth into Motherhood May cause Drowsiness and began to read. I suspect it’s also very likely that I have a touch (or full blown) case of PTSD.

And on the glass-half-full-of-vodka kind of note – the ultimate pay-off for the struggle is that my eldest offspring are now 20 and 21 years old, meaning it’s almost their turn to join the up-all-night watch crew also known as team zombie… and I can hardly wait until they have kids.

Be sure to check out this heartfelt, painstaking and funny new mom anthology! It’s recommended reading for the Hot Mess Mom Club. Welcome!

http://www.amazon.com/MOTHERHOOD-May-Cause-Drowsiness-Stories-ebook/dp/B00NUR3O9Y

Things that make the Seasons Joyful- or Not

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Apologies for the off-season bullshit.

I couldn’t agree more.

Any and all persons posting off-season content on the inter-webs pertaining to the frosty C-holiday ought to be tarred, feathered and run through the wood chipper… twice.

I know, that’s a bit harsh, but the C-holiday doesn’t exactly bring out the best in me. In fact, it’s stress-filled obligatory energy has me spiraling right into the Grinchy Hulk, which is a creature similar to the oversized kick-ass green guy, except with a more wicked, vile disposition and impressively thick psychiatric file to boot.

Grinch Hulk is a force to be reckoned with.

Sing it…

“You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch. You’re a muther-duckin prick…”

The following rewrite is a necessary polishing where all of my estranged holiday posts have been carefully strung together like a holiday turd necklace… for your reading pleasure.

Also, I’m sending a copy to each degenerate elf in the North Pole who have nothing better to do as they’re drying out during the annual substance-abuse rehab.

It’s kind of like a community service for short overworked toy-making indentured servants, to prevent them from going North Pole postal.

This is your final chance to turn back. Stop reading. The C-holiday is about to be mentioned.

You have been warned.

 

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Things that make the holidays JOYFUL #1

My favorite part of Christmas is definitely when the kids haul out all seventy bazillion boxes of decorations, dig through them like little spider-monkey’s-with-ADHD-on-crack, flinging festive fuckery everywhere… and LEAVE.

I did say LEAVE.

POOF… they’re gone.

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Leaving you standing like a catatonic deer caught in Hells headlights.

It looks like hung-over Satan Santa threw up all over my living room.

Shit. is. everywhere.

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Things that make the season JOYFUL- #2

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FuckYou lights.

They’re distinctly different from regular holiday lights because A. they don’t light and B. they’re wrapped around mutherfucking-garland, which is obviously different from regular garland because it’s tangled in fuckyou lights.

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Things that make the season JOYFUL- #3

Dismal song lyrics at Christmastime.

Who writes a holiday song about a sorry-sap kid who spends his last dollar buying new shoes for his terminally ill mom?

Is it the songwriters intention to suck every last bit of merriment out of an otherwise festive occasion?

Why not just drown a litter of blind three-legged puppies?

Note to my children- if you buy me shoes as a departing gift, I will hurl them at you like a boomerang. A more thoughtful gift would be something in the ballpark of 80ish proof.

Perhaps the dying mother was an ancestor of a certain Wizard of Oz character and her well-meaning offspring assumed her shoes would be the FINAL impression she left on the world, much like her witchy cousin from the east, in which case and only then, bitchin shoes would be a must have departing accessory.

THAT makes perfect sense and would make the song considerably less pitiful.

Hurray for bitchin shoes.

When I leave this world, I definitely want to be wearing ass-kicking shoes, preferably red patent leather that were not necessarily a gift from my children and probably something I bought from QVC when I was drunk on 80 proof spirits that was gifted unto me.

The lyrics have a whole new meaning now. You will never be able to hear it again, without thinking of flying houses, brooms and shiny red shoes.

You’re most welcome for that.

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Things that make the season JOYFUL- #4

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Clusterfucks.

Unfortunately, there are unlimited examples of this particular brain piercing phenomenon.

Today, we’re specifically referring to holiday light clusterfucks.

I have in hand, brand new lights right-out-of-the-box that happen to be a very complicated and entangled cluster. of. fuck. because, as you already know, the fuckyou lights died.

May they rest in peace be recycled in Hell.

I’m tempted to hang them… as is.

In which case, they’d pass for a big fat snowball decoration, which makes sense, since I have a strong uncontrollable urge to hit Santa right smack in the wiener with a frozen snowball. And for the record…I don’t throw like a girl.

I think the sadistic light boxer-upper people over in China are laughing their asses off smoking weed on the assembly line.

“They never get these untangled… bahahahahah!!!!”

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Things that make the season JOYFUL- #5

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Santa’s reign of TERROR

Let’s face it, Santa’s one creepy mo-fo.

He’s been scaring the bejesus out of innocent children and small domestic animals for centuries.

It’s certainly not difficult to understand why our naive fragile counterparts are scared shitlesss.

He’s a seedy looking vagrant who pops up annually, sticking out like a sore thumb in society.

It’s true that he could probably pass for a fuzzy mutant garden gnome, but that may not exactly be an asset for him, so we’ll just scratch that and move on.

The BIG guy’s larger than life, like a gargantuan stuffed toy that escaped from the crane game, and came to life with the sole purpose of condemning and passing judgement on innocent children.

Judge, jury and executioner.

No wonder kids are terrified.

Yet, parents everywhere continue to feed their children’s greatest fears by unknowingly repeating ritualistic holiday threats.

“Santa’s watching”

“He’s can see EVERYTHING you do.”

“He knows when you’ve been good or bad so be good for goodness sake. Oooohhhh… you better watch out!

The mixed messages sent by trustworthy adults are absolutely riddled with holes.

“Don’t talk to strangers, unless of course they’re dressed like an oversized garden gnome that escaped from the Home Depot and you want a new Xbox for Christmas… then it’s okay, but only during the last two weeks of December.”

How utterly confusing.

Kids are like animals, they can sense danger.

Their instinctual shrill cries, kicking and screaming are your warning signs to abort mission. Get the hell out of Macy’s.

Now.

Run.

I also heard somewhere that if you play the vinyl 45 record of Santa Clause is Coming to Town backwards, it actually sounds like Highway to Hell, which by the way would be an immense improvement.

Just saying.

Not only is the whole Santa thing unsettling, it’s downright unfair to children.

It’s virtually impossible for kids to behave all of the time. Even the most well behaved kids are gonna slip up now and then.

Messing up is what kids do best.

It may not even be big slip ups, but to the normally well behaved kid, something like feeding your asparagus to the cat, tinkling on the guest towel in the bathroom or undressing your baby sisters Barbies and posing them in compromising positions may be enough guilt to send you spiraling over the morality cliff- straight into a life condemned by Santa induced pyscho-therapy.

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Santa Substitutes?

After careful consideration, I came up with a list of Santa substitutes that would be significantly less threatening, and therefore more likely to deliver a reaction from children that isn’t terror.

A kinder more gentler holiday mascot without the fangs and claws.

The potential replacements up for consideration are…

*A cutsie spider monkey with a candy cane striped tail. I can imagine this guy swinging from the branches of the Christmas tree. I’d definitely enjoy Christmas trees more if they had monkey’s frolicking in them. Monkey’s are fast, efficient and fun. They could also be rented out anytime after Thanksgiving to complete all of your dreaded holiday errands and attend obligatory functions in your absence. Perfect.

Obviously, they’d poop Hershey kisses.

*The Grinch AFTER he smokes a doobie. (or ten) If he’s feeling too grinchy or he’s already booked up, Cheech or Chong will do in a pinch. Those guys are Fun with a capital F. Plus, they have the required facial hair, can smoke a mean pipe and would be happy to indulge in your obligatory holiday munchy offerings of cookies and milk.

More obscure yet fun replacement options could include…

George Burns.

He’s dead you say?

My point exactly – still less scary than a red velvet garden gnome who smells like beef & cheese.

So, there you have it.

Potential replacements for reign of terror we call… Santa Clause.

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Things that make the holidays JOYFUL #6

Live sap-regurgitating pine trees that contain something like eleventy gazillion pine needles that will inevitably end up in your underwear… and other dark recesses.

Especially when said sap bleeding monstrosities are acquired during a blizzard… when it’s 10 degrees and blowing out.

Jack Frost definitely blows.

Hell NO, I didn’t cut one down like Carolyn Fucking Ingalls on crack.

Leaving my warm castle and driving to the farm stand in frigid conditions was already extra credit in my mom call-of-duty book.

It went something like this- “That one looks good.” And, a new Christmas-tree-picking-out-record of under 5 minutes was made.

My eeny meeny miney mo blind selection wasn’t half bad either. This year I won at Christmas tree roulette.

Technically, she’s not fully decorated but that’s all I’m going to do. If my minion elf staff would like the remaining dozen or so bulbs and tinsel hung, they can do it themselves.

No kidding… we still use tinsel. The only real perk is glittery dog and cat leavings.

Really.

The yard and litter box are beauteous. Even our pets help defecate… decorate.

Yes, live trees are lovely and they smell amazing, but after 20 something years of pine needle enemas, I’ve finally had enough. Who needs the extra work and aggravation during this joyful season of stress, exhaustion and pulling the last hair out of your head?

Count me out.

A couple of years ago, against my families wishes I bought an artificial tree, figuring it would grow on them.

Technically, I lost by a vote of 5 to 1, in favor of a REALmutherfuckingmessofatree.

I don’t concede easily, so I presented my fake tree as now-we’re-one-of-those-hip-families-with-two-trees kinda thing, hoping sooner or later they’d accept it and I’d be free from tree fuckery forever.

Notta.

I’m still waiting.

For the record, it’s not just the sap and needles that makes my hair stand straight up like Marge Simpson, it’s a combo of that and the ceremonial wrapping and unwrapping of the FuckYou lights, which are inevitably tangled, dead or both every. single. time.

I absolutely despise dancing the tango with lights. The end of that chapter almost always involves scissors, alcohol and singing the annual holiday overture called FuckThis and FuckThat.

So, for the next few months, I will be dissecting pine needles out of my unmentionables and chanting the FuckIt overture.

Having sex with a hostile sticky porcupine (which is actually a tree) is número 6 on the… Things that make the season JOYFUL list.

Next…

Things that make the Holidays Joyful #7

FRIGID temperatures and an over abundance of the nasty white stuff.

Winter sucks Frosty’s snowballs.

Word.

Screw snow.

Also screw Jack Frost, the Abominable Snowman, the Winter Warlock, Snow Meiser, Yukon Cornelius and his pet Bumble, Mr. Softy, Queen Frostine from Candyland and the entire cast of Ice Age.

The only acceptable snow is found in a margarita.

Margaritas and Christmas cookies… perfect.

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Things that make the holidays JOYFUL #8

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Baking Obligatory COOKIES.

I just renamed Italian drop cookies… YouStickyBastardMutherfuckers.

It seems fitting.

No wonder my Italian ancestors drank so much wine.

Also, since this description happens to fit so many varieties of the cookies I attempted to bake, I shall assign them each a number at the end of their like name.

Example- YouStickyBastardMutherfuckers #1 are snickerdoodles, YouStickyBastardMutherfuckers #2 are Italian drop cookies, and so on and so forth.

Things that makes the Season Joyful #8 is Baking Cookies- those StickyBastardMutherfuckers. I love/hate you.

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Things that make the holidays JOYFUL #9 is Christmas cards.

Not sending them.

Just say no. Let’s save the rain forest together. I for one, am super conscientious of the negative effects deforestation has on my monkey friends.

Monkey’s live, play, eat and fling poop at other monkey’s from trees. (that may or may not be evergreens, but that’s totally not the point here)

One can therefore conclude that Christmas cards are made from bulldozed monkey-family condos and Chuck E. Cheese primate establishments where baby monkey’s eat banana pizza and play Whack-The-guy-in-the-yellow-hat.

Insensitivity toward monkey’s comes to mind when I think of sending Christmas cards, and my love for monkey antics far outweighs my tolerance of humans.

Join the 21st century people and send an e-card.

Also, if you send one card, you have to send all 75 cards, and quite frankly I no longer have it in me.

My goodwill meter run loweth.

I’m a monkey enthusiast who prefers mischievous furry primates with long tails over most humans and I’m totally okay with it,

Note- I happen to love getting YOUR cards. Keep sending them, especially the ones with photos. I love those. I however, have chosen to become an exclusive e-communicator. If you ever get a hand written note from me, know that I’ve definitely been abducted by aliens.

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Next…

Things that make the holidays JOYFUL #10

Mutherfucking turkey, which is distinctly different than regular turkey found in glossy magazine photos or that you’re invited to eat in other peoples homes, because it’s dirty greasy carcass is found in your very own kitchen, that’s why.

I’m sorry if I shocked you by blurting out MUTHERFUCKING TURKEY, but it came shooting out of my brain like a kamikaze pilot. It also came directly from the heart, meaning I really meant it.

I’m a ham and lasagna kinda girl from way back, because A. Saucy Italian food trumps meat and potatoes any day and B. Ham is a no nonsense meal. Meaning, you stick it in the oven with unpeeled potatoes and POOF… Dinner is served!

No sticking your entire arm up the turkey’s ass to remove a neck that shouldn’t be in there in the first place, only to turn around and stuff it with stale bread.
Furthermore, the fancy bird-beast requires mashed potatoes, meaning you get to peel (step one), dice (step two), cook (step three), mash (step four), and cleanup (step five) peeler, spoon, mixers, pot, strainer, bowl, not to mention, bandage your bloody knuckles and clean up potato peels that are everyfuckingwhere, except in the garbage can.
Fun fact- potato peels stick infinitely better than those window clings you decorate with on holidays.

Screeeeeeeeeeech!!!

I almost forgot to bitch about the gravy. The hubinator makes his own gravy, adding an open canister of flour of which most is airborne, a colander, sifter, grease separator, small sauce pan and gravy boat to the on-deck prep station adjacent from the sink from Hell. Yes, he makes his own gravy and it’s delicious. A delicious explosion in your mouth and all over your kitchen.

There are so many steps involved in the preparation of turkey, potatoes and gravy that the FuckYou factor is amplified by like a kazillionish.

You could travel to a foreign country and back in the time it takes to prepare and clean up the dreaded aftermath from a festive birdzilla dinner.

Young ladies, take my advice and have the absolutely-NO-turkey-on-holidays verbiage added to your prenup agreement immediately. You will thank me.

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Things that make the season JOYFUL #11 is The Groundhogs Day Concept.

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The Groundhogs Day Concept-according to the movie starring Bill Murray and not the furry rodents big debut in February that he almost always fucks up.

What I mean is, you wake up and it’s Christmas over and over and over again.

My sister and her family live out of town, so in addition to having a full blown Italian seafood feast on Christmas Eve and a Mutherfucking turkey on Christmas Day, we celebrate with her family after Christmas, accounting for Groundhogs Day #2, 3, 4 or however many days they stay.

The prep, the food, the extra bodies, the clean-up… over and over.

Note- not only do these tiring celebrations extend through Christmas, they continue into the final week of December encompassing my oldest daughters birthday and New Year’s Eve. We’ll call these Groundhogs Day #5 and #6 respectively.

Don’t get me wrong- I love my family.

However, I do not joyfully embrace an entire week of holiday overstimulation.

It hurts my brain and makes me grumpy.

Just ask anyone.

There seems to be no flicker of light at the end of this seemingly endless dark holiday tunnel called perpetual Groundhogs Day.

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Numero 12 is…

Batshit Crazy Relatives in the house EARLY.

Holiday Tip- If your son ever breaks a bone the first day of snowboarding-after-you’ve-dumped-several-hundred-dollars-into-equipment, hold on to his extra doctor prescribed feel-good pills with two hands. Use the white knuckle death grip if necessary because those babies will come in handy the Saturday morning after Christmas when you wake up with the headache from hell, and your crazy family calls to say they’re on route to crash your living room like Japanese kamikaze pilots on hallucinogens.

Rewind- I thought I had agreed to having a dinner-thing sometime like after 4:00 pm. It’s not even noon, I have comatose teenage bodies draped across every horizontal piece of nonjagged furniture in my house, dishes and half eaten food everyfuckingwhere, and the now crazies on route.

Just… Shit.

Hell no, I’m not scrubbing my toilets, emptying the trash or even removing this mornings hairball from the stairs.

Pearl Harbor was not a pretty sight.

Things that make the season JOYFUL #12- Batshit crazy relatives in the house… EARLY.

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The Joyful series was supposed to wrap up after #12, making it- The 12 Painful Days of Christmas, but thanks to the Groundhog’s Day Concept, it keeps going and going and going…

Stick a fork in this furry rabid rodent, people… I’m done.

Finite-o.

But wait… there’s more!

Act now and receive #13 – The Brain Crisper Addendum absolutely free!

In fact, we’ll double your order… to make certain your entire brain is toast.

At this point, your brain probably looks something like a deep fried rice Krispy treat.

Sizzzle.

This holiday and post are quickly becoming a nightmare episode of Groundhogs Day where rabid zombie gophers suck the sanity out of our brains using a tiny bar straw.

Quite appropriately, things that make the season JOYFUL #13, the grande finale and unlucky número 13 is… Deep-fried brain cells.

My extended family has finally retreated and the homestead is now marginally quiet. At least until my daughter’s annual New Years Eve/Birthday bash on Tuesday.

God give me strength.

At this point, I’m finding it difficult to put words or more specifically- lucid thoughts together as well as wipe my own drool, because my brain cells seem to be experiencing a sort of coma that’s probably a precursor to brain death.

They’ve gone up in a glittery puff of smoke.

This unfortunate deep-fried state of my grey matter may or may not be the result of random family members prodding my cerebellum with invisible dull corkscrews… or quite possibly from the indulgence of a katrillionish empty calories.

Probably both.

Do not attempt to eat a katrillionish calories at home because you will undoubtedly become a brain dead jiggly amoeba sloth just like me.

I’m seriously afraid to look in the mirror right now, because if Honey Boo Boo’s mom is looking back at me I will freak the fuck out.

Anyway, an amoeba sloth is what the hungry caterpillar really turns into when she gorges on holiday comfort food that’s something like a katrillion cheesy, gooey, deep fried calories dipped in chocolate sauce.

It went something like this…

She ate through two pans of lasagna, one mutherfuckingturkey, three extra cheesy sausage rolls, four trays of Christmas cookies- thosestickybastardmutherfuckers #1 – 4, one fudge roll and one bottle of Godiva chocolate vodka.

Burp.

Nope. There’s no beautiful butterfly here.

No way in hell is this amoeba sloths massive carcass is lifting off the ground.

 

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This has been an Extreme Mom Bedtime Story and holiday exclusive.

All functioning grey matter has been destroyed in the clusterfuck of holiday chaos.

No surprise, as this time of year, chaos tends to completely dominate my existence, much like an elephant sitting on a flea.

Let the brain cell regenerating begin… NOW.

The Things that make the season JOYFUL is far from over.

The grande finale is not when the fat lady sings – Grandma got run over by a reindeer, but when she finally face plants into home base otherwise known as New Years Day.

Then you may applaud LOUDLY.

If I’m not dead, I may join you.

The End.

Have an Extremely Happy New Year!!!

Secret Mother’s Day… Shhhh!!

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I’d like to propose a new holiday called Secret Mother’s Day, because we absofuckinglutely deserve it, that’s why.

Secret Mother’s Day would be just that.

A big fat secret.

After careful consideration, I’ve determined that it would be absolutely necessary to conceal it from our offspring, because God knows they’d just fuck it up.

It’s what they do best…. which is precisely why we’re keeping them in the dark.

In addition, we’d also keep it from our own mothers because (no offense or disrespect to them) but, obviously, you can’t thoroughly enjoy your own day as Queen Mother her Royal Highness, if you’re obligated to kiss someone else’s ass. That shit just cancels itself out and makes this day very confusing, not to mention disappointing.

Don’t give me that look.

You know it’s true and I did clarify… no offense or disrespect to them intended.

It just doesn’t mesh.

Nothing like winning a weekend to a five star resort and being asked to scrub the hot tub when you’re finished.

Just no.

This lets the air right out of the balloon of intended appreciation.

So there you have it… Secret Mother’s Day.

It would be an entire day, as in 24 entire hours and not just say a two hour block for brunch– if you’re lucky enough to be on the receiving end of that particular gift.

Alone.

No kids, no spouse or significant other, no relatives.

You’re welcome to bring the dog though, because dogs rock.

I said so.

Dogs are incredibly therapeutic, unconditionally loving and awesome in so many ways where humans essentially fall short. every. single. time.

So, it’s you and the dog.

All you have to do is chose the location (my venue is definitely a beach with warm surf and seashells) the type of lounging device you wish to recline in and what you’d like others (who aren’t your family— remember, they’d just fuck it up and for this reason, they’re not allowed within 100 miles of your special Secret Mother’s Day celebration) to do for you.

My short list includes a massage (that’s not in exchange for sex), cold drinks in fancy crystal glasses with pretty little umbrellas, chocolate covered strawberries presoaked in vodka, a stack of books to be read to me by Channing Tatum, an unlimited supply of chocolate peanut butter ice-cream served in waffle cones and a 20-something boy decoration to fan and water my dog, so he doesn’t get overheated.

That’s all I want.

Scratch that, not done.

Throw in a photographer to capture the evidence of our extremely secret and awesome adventure, as well as an Internet connection to plaster this red carpet day all over social media like the rest of the faux Internet moms who-are-most-likely-full-of-shit.

That’s all I want.

Just writing this proposal relaxed me.

Imagine that.

It’s the little things in life, people.

Grab your imagination by the mammary glands and run with it.